The Night John Tart Fell From the Roof

John Tart held with his fingers the crippled crumbling brick
The orange dust valleys and dells of his fingerprints
Cum-colored sweat and brillow bush head hair
Ferry the dingos
And chase the kangas off the golf course, lad

We climbed on top of tubas
And round bass drums white paper stretched tight
And snares
And dented trombones
And strings for wood delicate and finger prone
And the chalkboard with the dick chalk drawing
And the air conditioner hanging half way in and half way out
And the rows and the columns
And seats where sat asses cotton and pleats and the militant young bones of our boys and girls
We climbed to the roof
And we defiled an institution by dancing to the enemy’s anthem overlooking her shoulders and the stars

John Tart’s thighs worked like pistons buckled to his baseball catcher’s cup knees
A smoker’s heart
A tub of guts
Spider webs in his lungs
The lips of an eagle
A brain paralyzed by fear
Were the engines that drove those pistons through a dimly lit tunnel under the city
Dead men and ghosts called like cats through the steam pipes
Haunted sirens sounded in the black expanse behind my flash light
Whisper press on press forward ping sonar bats in flight

Ever’time I talk, you cry, he said
I don’t rodeo no more, I said

Too dangerous, he asked
I jus’ don’t love it no more, I said

He let go
And the bricks that fell after him
To land heavy on his empty chest
Were like the words I kept inside, always wanting to be said
Hurling themselves from my heart
After him
Because after all
They were his anyway.

9.2013

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